puzzle pieces from the clay
by jonimitchell
Summary: Her battered heart agrees with this doctrine, and it's set: Rachel will not be tempted by Finn Hudson this summer. AU


**muchas gracias to jess and rachel for keeping me sane through this nutty endeavor!  
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**glee isn't mine**

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She's always loved stars. In eighth grade, she took an astronomy class and the day it ended, demanded her daddy help her paint constellations on her ceiling. She's got them memorized, you know, not just the Big Dipper, she can pick out every astrology sign if you ask, and could rattle on for hours and hours on all the myths.

And her love for stars isn't restricted to only those ones that hang in the sky, but all kinds of stars, movie stars, Broadway stars, the gold star stickers she places after her name. They're metaphorical, and you know, metaphors are important. She will be a star. It's that simple.

But living in New York City makes it hard to see the stars. Her love for stars is replenished as well as validated every summer that she spends far from the city, at her summer camp, one of the few places she has _real_ friends (sometimes performing arts kids aren't as nice as she'd thought). This year, of course, she is honored to return as a counselor and vows to ensure that the summer goes perfectly – there will be _no_ bumps in the road, she's sure of that.

_ii_.

The summer air is hot and sweet-smelling as it grudgingly wafts in the window of her cabin, number thirteen, shared with Santana Lopez, who may very well be her best friend in the world. They're polar opposites – Santana is R&B where Rachel is Broadway – but they get on better than anyone.

The fan hums a low tune in the corner of the room, and Rachel groans slightly because it's only the second week of June, and already these temperatures are climbing high on the scale of unbearable. Regardless of her general distaste for the hot summer climate, she is excited to be here.

And this year, heart rubbed raw from a boy who took too much, she's more than excited to relax and be with people who _appreciate_ her.

She's excited to head down to the dining hall that afternoon, but the moment she sets foot on the ground outside her cabin, she is mowed down by a large, broad boy, who, after knocking her nearly to her death, sprints off after Noah Puckerman, not so much as a _sorry_ tossed in her direction.

"You okay?" Santana asks, holding out a hand to help her up. Indignant, Rachel rises, tongue itching to lash out against the boy – and lash she does, all the way to the dining hall.

The only people on campus at this point are counselors and adults that run the camp, but the dinner line is still long, and just as Rachel steps into the back of the long, long line, a _very_ familiar broad form cuts right in front of her, nearly colliding into her once more.

"Hey!" She exclaims, and he whirls around, furrowing his brow before looking down.

"Oh, look what we have here," he begins, "a Lilliputian." And much to her disbelief, he _pats her on the head_.

"Don't patronize me," she spits, whacking his hand off her hair, though a small part of her quite liked the feel of his large hand atop her head.

He narrows his light brown eyes, and she ignores how cute he is, freckles spattered across his nose. She waits for his rebuttal, but the only response he gives – annoyingly – is a turn of his body. She pretends to not study the contours of his back, or the way he tosses his head backwards slightly in laughter. She's a smart girl – the smartest, in fact – and knows better than to become too attached to condescending, attractive men.

Her battered heart agrees with this doctrine, and it's set: Rachel will not be tempted by Finn Hudson this summer.

_iii._

This isn't very hard, as he seems to be an incredibly arrogant jerk, who, much to her distaste, happens to live in the next cabin over. Just five feet away is the patronizing ass that insists that women be kept in the kitchen and _only_ in the kitchen.

Okay, so he never said that. However, he did say he loves when his mom cooks, which means just the same thing.

Plus, the first thing he said to her was an insult about her height. She is _not_ that short – five foot two is just below average, plus, he must be at _least_ six four, which is well over the average male height! She huffs, tossing and turning in her bed, sheets rustling and she's so upset, too, because he lives next door, his bed is possibly ten or fifteen feet from hers and she has to spend the next two months with him everyday. Because they are neighbors, their groups combine for daily activities.

This is the worst thing that could ever happen, she declares the next morning as she dresses, and Santana only rolls her eyes.

_iv_.

Traditionally, the first official day of camp comes to a close with a campfire, in the center of each little village of cabins. Since this is a musical summer camp, the counselors are required to be musically apt, and from experience, Rachel knows that Noah Puckerman can play wonderful music on his guitar.

But as she and Santana sit with the girls in their cabin, who have taken to Rachel like ducks to water, she is disheartened to find _Finn_ sitting on the stump, strumming an acoustic guitar. "Lilliputian," he greets, smirking slightly as she plops onto the ground, close to the stump – Santana's choice, naturally.

He threads his fingers into her hair – petting her, like she's a dog! She cannot believe his gall! "What do you think you're doing?"

"You've nice hair," he mumbles, and she rolls her eyes. "Sorry?"

"Thank you. Apology _not_ accepted!"

He just rolls his eyes and shakes his head. "You are incredibly overdramatic, did you know that?"

She gasps, offended, because she is theatrical, _not_ overdramatic! "You are a misogynist!"

"I don't want to massage you, Rach?"

She releases an aggravated shriek, fully prepared to lay him a new one, because this is a new level of _dumb_, but Santana interrupts with, "Now, Frankenteen, want to start playing us a song?"

Finn nods in her direction and turns his heated gaze away from Rachel, but turns it to her again as he starts to strum out an unfamiliar song. And much to her displeasure, he is _talented_, a soft, sort of gruff voice pouring from his lips, "_I'll see you, or I won't – whatever_."

And when it comes to a close, everyone claps, but requests a happier song, and he smiles, agrees, and begins playing an upbeat Taylor Swift song. All the girls – and boys – sing along, clapping and cheering when he finishes.

Begrudgingly, Rachel claps, heels of her hands knocking into one another and Finn shoots her a smug grin. Ugh. He knows he's good. "Duet!" One child calls out, sitting beside Noah, "Sing a duet!"

Finn lifts one eyebrow, turns his gaze in her direction and crooks his finger. "C'mere, Rachel."

"No. I will _not_ sing with you, Finn Hudson." But all the campers in their groups cheer and complain, even other cabin counselors, Quinn and Brittany and Sam and Blaine, so Rachel _has_ to agree, or risk everyone getting angry with her. It's silly of her to start camp drama so soon, as well, so she hastens to her knees and scoots closer to the stump.

He begins playing a familiar song, with an eyebrow raised, questions if she knows it, and she nods. "_Oh, well, in five years time we could be walking 'round a zoo, with the sun shining down over me and you_," He smiles slightly at her and she can't help but smile back as they sing the refrain, her heart leaping slightly into her throat.

They sound _good_. And he's so cute, strumming his guitar, smiling as he sings with her, and when it's over, she's ready to put their dark past behind them. She's starry eyed – singing with someone just _does_ something to her – but of course, Finn ruins it with some rude comment she barely hears.

She just knows it erases all possibilities of _any_ future camaraderie.

_v_.

"What'cha doing in here so early, munchkin?"

Her eyes flash to his, big frame leaning against the doorway to music room three, familiar smirk on his face. It's the Friday of their first week, and he's been following her dutifully – a puppy dog. "Hello, Spot," she mocks, continuing to press her fingers against the ivory. She refuses to let him see just how affected she is by him.

"Need some help?"

"What?" The word bursts from her lips, acidic and staccato into the warm, high ceilings of the room.

"I mean, you're a little slow on your chord changes. Want my help?"

"Your – your _help_?"

"Mhm." He plops onto the piano bench beside her, scanning the sheet music once before beginning to play perfectly, effortlessly. A smug grin tugs at his lips, and she tries to ignore it but she can't, especially when he tips his stupid attractive head and motions for her to begin singing.

"You're such a chick, y'know?" He speaks up; voice interrupting her singing which falls short on a well-rounded note that she is especially proud of.

"How is that?"

"Like, Regina Spektor? Talented lady, of course, but like, total chick music." His fingers rise from the keys, room silent as he reaches for her iPod, balanced atop the glossy black piano. "Mhmm, Ingrid Michaelson, Coldplay, John Mayer, Jack Johnson – you're a complete chick. Although," he smiles widely, "I _am_ glad that you've got some classic rock on here."

"Could you be more condescending?"

"Yes."

"So," she begins, fury surging in her veins (she can't quite put her finger on why he annoys her so much), "you think it's okay to insult my height, my gender, my musicianship, _and_ my music taste? Have you no decorum?"

His hand slips into hers, squeezing her palm slightly before grasping her wrist very lightly, heel of his hand against her pulse point. She wonders if he can feel it thudding and thrumming at his touch, or if he sees the pink crawling up her face. He's so close to her, she can nearly see every single freckle on his face, looking just like the stars in the nighttime sky.

He smells warm and heady, like cinnamon sugar and peppermint, all sweet and spicy and his fingers are so big, sturdy, as they trail along her wrist and probe her fingers. She might be leaning towards him, his lips look so full and pink, and _god_, he is handsome, when Santana barges in the room, "What're you doing?"

He jerks away from her roughly, shrugs, answers Santana, "Rachel didn't get the chord change in the song we're presenting."

"That is not true!"

His eyebrow rises, challenging her. "It is. She knows I'm the best pianist at this camp, too, so she – quite humbly – asked me for help this morning at breakfast. And how could I deny pretty little Lilliputian?"

Her jaw drops – did he _really_ just say that? And to think, she was hoping to forgive him and maybe form a tentative acquaintanceship with him! She is so stunned she can't even say anything.

He shoots a small, satisfied smile her way, like he _knows_ he's gotten under her skin. "Well, then, Piano Man, why don't we go through the number one final time?" Thank God for Santana, she thinks, rising from the piano bench and placing the sheet music primly on a music stand.

_vi_.

The young sunlight slants through her window, rousing her from her heavy sleep, and she rolls onto her stomach, smiling slightly – it's Saturday, which means it's her day off, as the adult counselors take all the children on a day trip. Rachel eases herself out of her bed, clock blaring fire red _nine oh six_. Not as early as she'd thought, and a quick check in the main part of the cabin tells her that the children are long gone.

Her bare toes press into the hardwood, cool beneath her warm feet as she dresses and, grabbing a book and slipping on flip-flops, heads out of her cabin.

The campus is eerily silent as she crosses them, heading to the gazebo on the corner of the grassy plain between the dining hall and classroom area. It's her favorite spot on campus, quiet and alienated most days despite children running back and forth on campus all day.

She loses herself in her novel, though to be honest, she finds her thoughts not on the characters in the book but on the annoying, rude, six-foot tall boy who refuses to leave her alone.

And, speak of the devil, because he comes traipsing across the grounds to the gazebo, eyes planted firmly on his feet in front of him, guitar strapped around his upper body. She thinks that maybe, he doesn't notice her, won't notice her, though that's a silly pipe dream. "Top of the mornin', Princess," he greets, sidling up beside her on the bench.

Much to her aggravation, he slips his arm around her back, but it doesn't stay there, as his fingers begin to strum a quiet tune on his guitar. She smiles slightly at the sound, eyes fixed on his fingers plucking the silver strings, heart thudding in time with his foot thumping heavily on the wooden floor of the gazebo.

"What're you reading?"

"Just a novel," she answers, and this is the first conversation they've had that isn't filled to the brim with sly insults.

"You like to read, huh?"

"Mhmm! Quite a lot, in fact. I don't get much time to at home, though, what with my rigorous schedule."

He pauses slightly, fingers stilling on the strings before resuming the melody. "What's your schedule like?"

She folds her knees beneath her, excitement surging in her veins, "Well, I attend a performing arts school with four regular classes in the morning and the rest of my afternoon is spent doing a project – this year, it's preparations for a vocal recital – and after school, I have a vocal lesson and then ballet, usually, or I volunteer at the JCC."

"You're a busy little ewok, aren't you?" He smiles that charming, _obnoxious_, smile and turns back to his guitar.

"What did you just call me?" She hops off the bench and storms off, away from him, spotting Santana sitting beneath a tree with Brittany and Quinn.

To be fair, she doesn't know what an ewok is, really, she's only assuming that it's offended. And, given the nature of their relationship, an ewok is probably some sort of creature from the black lagoon.

Huffing, Rachel flops onto the quilt stretched out beneath the three girls. "S'up, Rachel?"

She glances over her shoulder to catch Finn staring in her direction, fingers still over his guitar, and she ignores her heart's palpitations and tea secret, small, miniscule part of her that wants to rush back to him and wrap herself in his arms –

No. No, nonono, she doesn't want to do that – she doesn't feel that way about him. Just a momentary lapse of judgment, simply resulting from his singular kind interaction that, of course, faded into insult. "Just that _Finn_."

Quinn rolls her eyes a little and balances on her elbows. "What did he do, now?"

"He called me," she pauses for dramatic effect, "_an ewok_."

Santana smiles a little and nudges Brittany in the side, and Rachel wonders momentarily, from the positioning of Santana's hands on Brittany's if – and Santana says, "Do you even know what that is?"

"I assume it's some horrible beast."

Brittany balances on one elbow and tosses her hair over her shoulder. "Actually," she corrects, "an ewok is a species of teddy-bear-like hunter-gatherers that inhabit the forest. He probably called you one because you're cute and small, just like them."

Oh. Well, then.

She's still mad at him, even if he called her cute.

_vii_.

Her fingers slip a little on the dewy grass, toes curling as a shiver crawls up her spine. Sunday nights are all-camp games, and tonight is a game of hide-and-seek in the dark. The counselors don't do much but provide bases as well as bottles of water and comfort for the kids who get found and are upset.

Tonight, the sky is clear, navy dotted with silver stars, and her back wets as she leans on it to see them in a panorama. She shudders again and sits up, hugging her knees against her chest. Santana is off with Brittany, Quinn with Puck or Sam or someone, and she's alone.

Until, of course, Finn sits beside her, his arm hooking behind hers. "Hello, _Finn_."

He smiles genuinely at her. "Ever figure out what an ewok was, Princess?"

Her chest swells – with anger most definitely – and she pushes him slightly. He falls over, but laughs and rights himself. "You must think you're so funny."

"I _am_ so funny." With a half moon grin, "Just like you are _so short_."

"Your jokes are getting old, Finn," she murmurs indifferently, fingers folding the hem of her skirt.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah." They're silent for a while, then, kids screaming and running and laughing all around them and it's so, so quiet but for the quiet sound of his breathing. She can feel as he exhales and inhales and she hates it, hates how she sort of likes it, and she really, truly, honestly hates him.

She pulls out her iPod after five minutes of silence and tucks the buds in her ears, and Finn watches over her shoulder – doesn't he know how rude that is? Still, she ignores him, and seemingly against her wishes, she finds herself leaning against him. His hand slips on the dewy grass as her weight presses against it, and she finds herself sprawled on top of him.

"Hi, there, Lilliputian," he smiles, eyes echoing the stars, starry and bright.

She ignores him, still, and attempts to break away (his chest is strong and sturdy beneath her small hands) but he grasps her wrist gently, and she tries to ignore the overwhelming look in his eyes. "Let me go."

He tickles her side and laughs and laughs, "Nah."

"Finn, you moron, let me go!" His face is inches from hers, and she is overcome with the scent of cinnamon concentrated at the hollow of his throat and his lips are so close and rose red and soft soft soft and she wonders if he tastes as sweet as he smells and she leans a little closer because she doesn't know any better and jerks away when she realizes what exactly she is doing. "And what do you think you're doing, reading over my shoulder?"

"What? I just wanted to see the shitty song you were listening to."

"My music is _not_ shitty, you barbaric, impetuous—_jerk face_!"

"Oh, jerk face, am I supposed to be offended by that? Got bad news for you, honey, I've been called a lot worse."

"You are so—so dumb, okay? You don't get the _obvious_ hints that I just don't _like_ you, like, how many times –"

"Listen, Princess," he seethes, and she thinks that maybe she's managed to offend him, and they're still so close, she can feel his breath on her lips, so she pulls back a little, "I heard from Puck you were a prissy, uptight diva, but I didn't believe him 'cause you seemed so nice, but now I'm thinking differently. I used to wonder why that Jesse kid let a catch like you go, but now I think I understand why!"

"How dare you talk about that as if you know the story! You don't know a _thing_ about me, Finn! I—" The words pour from her throat, "I _hate_ you!"

He chuckles a little, eyes darkening, his hand tugs on hers and intertwines their fingers and he shakes his head as he draws her near. "I beg to differ."

"Do you?" He hums his agreement as his mouth drops close to hers, soft full lips so close to her own and she might close her eyes and he might grasp her cheek with his free hand, her small hand resting on his knee as he closes the millimeters between them in a soft, sweet kiss.

She expected differently, expected teeth clanging tongue sucking passion but she likes this slow kiss, likes how he draws her closer to him, pressing his mouth to hers with increasing pressure and _god_, no, no, she doesn't hate Finn Hudson on bit.

At least, she doesn't hate him until he pulls away, eyes dazed and starry eyed and she can't stop herself from jerking away from him. "Oh, my God."

"Rachel," he calls as she hops to her feet and sprints away, off in Santana's direction and it takes all her strength to ignore the voice inside her that wants her to turn her head.

She's a little more than ashamed when a tear rolls down her eye, heart lodged in her throat for what feels like forever.

_viii_.

Her eyes, like her heart, are raw the next morning when she arises just before seven to shower and blow-dry her hair and she doesn't even sing in the shower, she's so lost and she doesn't really know when she decided to let Finn into her heart but he certainly found a way to stitch himself in. Quite the feat in only two weeks, yet, here sh is, spaces of her heart filled with Finn.

She's brushing her teeth when Santana stumbles into the bathroom, banging her knee quite loudly into the cabinet, and Rachel puts her finger to her lips because the girls have another half an hour of sleep until it's time for them to wake up.

"Heard you macked on Hudson last night."

"I did no such thing."

"S'not what Puckerman told me," Santana dispels, grinning salaciously. "Hey, remember when I let Puckerman finger me last summer?"

Rachel breathes in deep, "Yes."

"It really helped me loosen up, so maybe you should let Hudson slide his hands up into your snatch, God knows no one has been up there since Jesse annihilated your heart."

"Finn said something about that last night," Rachel murmurs, voice small, "did you tell him about it?"

She sighs, swiping eye makeup remover under her eye and meets Rachel's wide brown gaze in the mirror. "Yeah. He asked. He's into you, Rachel, like, hardcore into you."

"He said some cruel things."

"So did you," she reminds Rachel, and she balks a little.

"How do you know all this?"

"Hudson tells Puckerman anything, and Puck tells _me_ everything. He knows I love a good bite of gossip."

"Oh." For some reason, she's not too upset. It's nice to have someone to talk to about this kind of stuff. "What should I do?"

"Apologize." Deliberating, "Then fuck him."

"_Santana_!"

"What? You need to loosen up!"

_ix_.

His hand rests on her shoulder as he lowers himself onto the piano bench beside her. "Hi, Lilliputian."

She gives him a hard stare before remembering her resolve to apologize _first_. In fact, that nickname doesn't even bother her anymore – from the fluttering in her stomach, she is certain of that much. "Hi, Finn."

"Listen—"

"No," she interrupts, pressing her hand over his mouth. "Me first. I'm sorry for calling you a dumb, barbaric, jerk face. I also am sorry I said that I hate you from the deepest, most special bottom of my heart."

He smiles and grabs her hand, twining their fingers, and she smiles shyly. "I—um…I accept. Thank you."

She waits patiently for his apology, but he only smiles and twirls some of her hair between two of his fingers. Finally, "You know, I don't think you're uptight. Or a diva, even, or any of those things I said you just – pinched the last nerve."

"I accept your acknowledgment that you were wrong."

He smiles and he hugs her and maybe everything is right. "I shouldn't have mentioned that kid Jesse."

Maybe her raw, numb heart is warming, now that she's got Finn and his thread to weave her back together. She doesn't have anything to say but to press her hand to his thigh and squeeze the area, and his arms are still wound around her and he groans very, very quietly.

The warning bell rings, signaling the approaching arrival of campers and Finn pulls his arms away from her before murmuring into her ear, "Meet me tonight between our cabins at ten."

_x_.

His fingers shake slightly as he reaches for her, hands slipping under her lilac tank top. His fingertips are rough against the smooth skin of her stomach. She sighs a little into his mouth as his fingers reach the undersides of her breasts. It's never quite been like this with Jesse, a soft kiss in between pulling off her clothes and his, and it's odd – they're outside, navy sky spanning before them, crescent moon in the center of the sky – and she isn't embarrassed at all.

His mouth leaves hers, brushing her jaw line and collarbone, fingers pressing a symphony on the skin of her hips. He hums against her pulse point, and _oh_, _oh, that_. She hums his name softly, bringing his mouth back to hers.

The summer breeze passes over her shoulders, cool against her heated skin as Finn presses into her, sky a panorama of silver and blue and the moon is a crescent in the sky, air silent but for the sound of their breath and the crickets' cacophony. His hands move over her skin, seeking seeking seeking and finally – _oh_.

After, he tugs her close, and she traces constellations on his face, freckle to freckle to freckle, and he smiles at her again and he kisses her and she whispers into his neck when he pulls her close, his chin atop her head, that it was never like this before.

It's a different Finn from the one she's accustomed to, now, the way he pulls the blanket around their bodies, and she thinks maybe this is what falling in love feels like.

_xi_.

It rains the next day, a soft quiet pitter-patter against the roof of the cabin that drags her heavy eyelids open. A smile tugs at her lips as she glances out the window towards Finn's cabin.

She can't hide the smile as she brushes her teeth and showers and even as she blow-dries and curls it – which she hates – she can't help but smile. Santana shuffles into the bathroom, face creased from sleep. "Aw, shit," she greets with a wide grin, "you totally hopped on the Hudson train to – "

"_Don't_ say it," Rachel interrupts, stepping out of the bathroom. She dresses meticulously, pulls her prettiest dress over her shoulders and frets for what feels like hours about whether or not she should tie her hair up.

She's being silly. It's just Finn.

But, then again, it's _Finn_.

The girls in her cabin are, as always, complimentary as she gets them ready for the day, and just as they're about to depart for breakfast, there's a knock on the cabin door.

It doesn't surprise her to find Finn leaning against the doorjamb. He holds his hand out and spins her, "Mornin', Lilliputian."

She flushes to the tips of her toes. "What are you doing here?"

"Walk you to breakfast?" He jerks his thumb backwards, and she glances around him, balancing her hand on his shoulder and sees Puck leading the group of boys towards the dining hall.

So she hooks her arm with his and leads the girls and Santana out of the cabin.

_xii_.

He stops her before entering the dining hall, waits for the children to pass them by, and then kisses her, hard on the mouth. "Did I tell you how beautiful you look today because, let me tell you, munchkin, you look –"

"Lovebirds!" Santana's interruption breaks them apart. "C'mon, the line's getting long."

He slips his hand in hers and, swinging their intertwined fingers together, walk into the dining hall.

_xiii_.

They spend their Saturday sitting on the gazebo, watching as the three day rain pours and drizzles around them. She leans against his chest, fingers curling under the collar of his sweatshirt – the rain seems to carry cold air on its back – and tells him about Jesse, who courted her and dated her and loved her and told her he would marry her if she had sex with him and broke up with her on the first night of Hanukkah for no reason and she found out he was using her for sex and she didn't want to marry him anyway, she tells him, he took advantage of her fairytale romance attitude.

He regales the story of his mom and his dad and his dad's untimely and unfortunate death and about his escalating urgency to get out of his dumpy hometown in Ohio. She winds her arms around his neck and kisses his cheek, "You should live in New York!"

He smiles, "With you?"

"Naturally. After we graduate, of course."

He hums, pleased, and kisses her, presses her into the cold, wet ground of the gazebo, her fingers clasping his neck, "Finn, we can't do this here!"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah." He smiles and kisses her again.

_xiv_.

June's temperatures escalate around the end of the month and in a tangled, heated slump Finn tells her he loves her.

His legs stretch longer than hers, her toes sliding up and down his calf and he groans, "Baby, the sun's down why is it still _so hot_?"

She's not sure she has the best answer for that, so she ignores him, forcing him to pay attention to the full-camp activity tonight, which is some sort of game that she doesn't quite understand. Finn runs his hand over her head, twirling a strand of her ponytail between his fingers as he laughs at something Puck says.

This, she knows, this sweet summer and sweet boy and sweet kisses, this is what love must be what being in love must feel like. She leans her head against the juncture of his neck and shoulder and kisses his jaw and he just says it the words just pour from his lips, "I love you."

She smiles and squeezes him tight, "I love you, too."

_xv_.

"Finn," she says coolly, folding cotton tee shirts and placing them in her suitcase. He's sitting, cross-legged on her bed, folding and then unfolding her dresses and skirts, "Please help me fold?"

He pushes out his bottom lip and shakes his head. "I am going to miss you _so much_."

She tucks her body against his on the bed, suitcase sliding to the ground with a loud thump. "I'll miss _you_."

"I just—Lilliputian," and eight weeks ago she couldn't stand that nickname, or the swoop of his lips as they caressed the word, "I didn't come here to – to fall in love with a girl. But I did, you know? I fell in love with you and I know you said you wanted to keep this a summer thing but," he breaks off, raking his fingers through his hair, "I want it to be a forever thing?"

"Finn," she laughs, "we're seventeen."

"That's the problem."

She smiles and curls into him, packing be damned, "We'll figure this out, I promise. Just you and me, yeah?"

_xvi_.

She wakes up to the smell of coffee and a kiss on the shoulder. She smiles slightly, rolling onto her side and facing him. She slumps against him, eyes little half-moons on her face as he puts the coffee mug between her hands. "Morning, sunshine," he murmurs, kissing the side of her pillow-creased face.

Her throat grumbles something unintelligible, a little grunt that makes him smile against her head, leaning on his arm, and he kisses her face again. Little mornings are his favorite – hers too, from the sleepy grin pulling at her lips. "I had a dream about you," she sighs, placing the mug on the nightstand and curling back under the covers, "and I'd like to return to it."

"Lilliputian," he murmurs, pressing close to her beneath the covers, "honey, you can have the _real_ me."

She shakes her head even as he brushes his nose against hers and kisses her slowly, hooking her leg over his waist as he eases his hand up her inner thigh, pressing just against the juncture of her thighs.

"Mmm, morning sailor," she teases, laughing into her mouth until he presses his fingers there again, and _oh_.

_xvii_.

"I like your ring," he murmurs, cinnamon sugar and peppermint, "Who gave it to you?"

"This guy," she responds, slipping her right arm around him and gazing at her left hand, pressed against his bare chest, "just this guy. He was strange."

"He must really love you, huh?"

She kisses his chest. "Yeah, I guess so."

"Remember the first song we sang together?" His fingers trail up her arm, sliding over her shoulder and tracing her collarbone.

She sings a bar from it, remembering how she hated him (loved him probably) and how she loves him so dearly now. "How could I forget?"

He gives her that cheesy smile, "Been five years, hasn't it? Did I prove you wrong _or what_?"

"It's been, like, six years."

"Shhh," he murmurs, pressing his hips against hers, lips against her throat.

_xviii_.

The doctor tells them it's a girl, and Finn might cry in the ride home (he swears Rachel to secrecy), and they sit on the big gray sectional in their living room afterwards. Finn eases her shirt over her belly, hands reaching for his baby girl, and she's reading a book about pregnancy.

"Possible names, I think," she begins, "definitely Rachel. Fiona. Umm. Santana, of course. Maria. _Evita_! Fanny, Elphaba, Idina."

"Whoa, baby," he interrupts, "I've got the perfect name."

"Do you?"

"Lilly."

She smiles a little, presses her fingers over his on her stomach. Thinks of sweet summer air and Finn and _Gulliver's Travels_ and ewoks, and she smiles, "I think that's perfect."

"Yeah," he hums, leaning on his palms, "I think _you're_ perfect…Lilliputian."

This time, she smiles.

* * *

><p><strong>sigh review<strong>


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